


The Eye of the Storm

by Icarus5800



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: And it turned out way longer than I wished, And way worse, Gen, I tried to explore that idea, M/M, You know how Marius almost intervened to save Javert's life on the barricades?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:02:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icarus5800/pseuds/Icarus5800
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marius interrupted Valjean and Javert at the barricades doing--what?  Nothing.</p><p>A.K.A.  My pitiful half-assed attempt at Hugo pastiche.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eye of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Because I fucking hate that goddamned misunderstanding of Marius' that Valjean killed Javert. There's hardly anything remotely slashy in this though. Sorry folks. Also, written entirely in Pontmercy's POV with a dash of omniscient thrown in.
> 
> Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

“You cannot kill this man!” Marius cried out as he sprang over the four-foot tall barricade to the Rue Mondétour, his urgency lending him agility and speed. In a flash he was on the other side, alighting beside the mound of corpses of the fallen heroes, his breathing wild and fervid with the purpose of his mission, the salvation of an enemy. He prepared himself to restrain M. Fauchelevent from committing his proposed act—which, truth be told, he suspected might not be a judicial execution in the name of the republic, but something far more sinister considering M. Fauchelevent’s mysterious and puzzling conduct at the Gorbeau House—with physical force if necessary. Numerous conjectures rushed through his feverish mind, perceived evidence battling against that noble instinct of the lover which refuses to believe any ill of one’s love or even those closely linked to her and dear to her heart. Oh! how it would pain Cosette should his suspicions prove correct, and she learn the truth about this man she calls father!

His disjointed thoughts and his supreme distress—for nothing more disturbs a lover than the suffering of the beloved—clouded his gaze, and he made an effort to regulate his breath and clear his head. When he beheld reality once more, nothing could have astonished him more than the sight which greeted his eyes. So certain had he been of seeing M. Fauchelevent’s pistol against Inspector Javert’s temple, so certain that the inspector would be bound and defenseless, incapable of resistance to that hideous fate which must befall him, that the present occurrence ten paces distant convinced Marius that he was still chained within the realm of fantasies and dreams, or that his eyes had turned traitor and deceived him.

He blinked. He rubbed his eyes. Reality, insensible to the turmoil of his mind, remained unchanged.

“Unhand him, Javert!” Marius cried, no small measure of confusion stealing away the authority of command from his voice. We are forced to admit that even were the command uttered with all the authority that may be summoned forth from that handsome and well-formed body, it would have produced as little effect. Inspector Javert was unmoved. One might think he had not heard.

Both this cry and the last were hidden from the ears of the brave defenders of the barricade by the roar of bullets and cannonballs, a fortunate circumstance that permitted this little domestic drama beside the great drama of France to unfold—if we may be pardoned the phrase—in peace.

What could have drawn from Marius such a cry?

This was what he saw:

Inspector Javert, unbound, free, at liberty—that is to say, dangerous—pressing the venerable M. Fauchelevent, whom the reader surely knows to be Jean Valjean, against the wall of the alley, a fierce snarl that might perhaps be mistaken for a grin splitting his face in two, rendering his visage terrible. The double row of sharp, gleaming teeth seemed about to descend at any moment upon the fragile neck of Jean Valjean, as the hungry wolf upon the innocent lamb. Jean Valjean, on his part, made no effort to deliver himself and escape the inspector’s claw-like grip on his collar, an expression of serene resignation on his ancient features, almost as if allowing himself to be held. A dignified surrender, a gallant capitulation. In short, the places of condemned and executioner were switched.

Neither man paid any attention whatsoever to Marius. Their absorption in each other was so complete, their energies so intensely focused on the other, that the little piece of land on which they stood and the little bubble of air from which they breathed appeared a world separate and apart, so exclusive was their connexion.

Were he a lesser man, Marius might have felt some indignation at the blatant disregard. He might still have, were confusion and concern not so dominant in his feelings that no other emotion was possible. He would dearly like to satisfy that first, confusion, and learn how this extraordinary occurrence came about, for surely it was not necessary to untie the prisoner before blowing his brain out. At the same time, he recognized an opportunity to assuage that second feeling, concern, by rescuing M. Fauchelevent from Javert before the latter became aware of his presence. In his naivety, perhaps, or due to the illusion of that world apart, Marius truly believed that his arrival had not been a noted. A mistake, as we shall see shortly.

With a start, he realized that he had dropped his gun in his haste to scale the barricade. He rapidly scanned the narrow street, and perceived, lying tranquilly at the base of the wall behind Javert, an unsheathed knife and a pistol. He put his back to this wall and crept along it, noiseless as a mouse.

All the while, Javert and M. Fauchelevent were engaged in the act of staring into each other’s eyes, a silent communication more incomprehensible to outsiders than ciphers.

Marius reached his goal, the pistol, which he preferred to the knife, and bent slowly on one knee, placing his right hand upon it.

A large boot suddenly descended on that hand. The boot, of course, belonged to Javert.

Marius yelped in pain and surprise, and made to extract his delicate artist’s hand from beneath the sole of the offensive boot. He could not.

He looked up. Javert had not moved at all save reaching back with his foot to take Marius’ hand captive. M. Fauchelevent was gazing down at him with a veritable storm of emotions in his eyes, and something flashed within those unfathomable depths that was not unlike the merciless strike of lightning, causing a violent shudder to run through Marius. His hand was the prisoner of Javert; his soul was the prisoner of “the father.” Marius was in dire straits.

Gradually, he saw the storm quiet, and harden into a resolution he could not understand. Turning his gaze back to the inspector, M. Fauchelevent said in a calm sort of voice:

“Release the boy.”

Strange to relate, Javert obeyed.

Once free, Marius leaped to his feet with the pistol in his still aching hand, and pointed it at Javert with a visible tremor, which was also apparent in his speech, and said:

“Step back from Monsieur Fauchelevent.”

It was not fear, but rather an increase in disorientation that resulted in this tremor. Marius, at the present moment, perfectly understood those profound words of wisdom spoken by Socrates: “All I know is that I know nothing.”

This, too, Javert deigned to obey.

Though ignorant of all causes and effects, Marius saw that he was master of the situation, for he alone was armed. This reassured him. His gaze travelled back and forth between the police spy who had loaned him the pistols with which he saved the lives of his friends, and the father of the woman he loved, his bewilderment writ large in his dreamy eyes. As he opened his mouth to demand an explanation, Javert spoke:

“Shoot me now.”

Marius almost dropped the gun. He imitated with tolerable accuracy the expression, if one may call it that, of a gaping fish.

“Javert!” exclaimed M. Fauchelevent.

Marius thought he detected a hint of gentle admonition in that voice, as a loving father towards an errant child. He shook his head.

“Why else does one pick up a gun, if not to shoot?” Javert retorted.

Seeing no immediate danger, Marius lowered the pistol, yet maintaining a firm grip on it all the same, just in case. Of what, he did not know. He addressed his question towards M. Fauchelevent, inclining his head respectfully and speaking in the most humble tone, for though he despaired of ever seeing Cosette again, he did not wish to antagonize her father with an ill-chosen word or deed:

“Monsieur, I must confess to a great deal of astonishment at the position in which I found you. How came this man unbound, and you in his power? What had passed in this alleyway prior to my entrance? Forgive my impertinence, Monsieur, but both my personal curiosity and my responsibility as a member of the barricade require an answer, for this man, Inspector Javert, is our prisoner. If Monsieur would do me the honour of clearing the mystery, as it were, I should be much obliged.”

Javert snorted and fixed his disdainful glare upon them both, saying:

“Monsieur has gone quite mad. Monsieur cut the poor inspector’s bonds himself. Monsieur demanded that Inspector Javert leave the barricades at once. In conclusion, Monsieur has taken leave of his senses, and Inspector Javert merely tried to shake them back into him.”

Bowing elaborately to Marius, he added:

“Does the explication satisfy you, Monsieur?”

Before Marius could conjure up a response, M. Fauchelevent spoke:

“What he has said is not far from the truth, though I do believe myself to be in full possession of my mental faculties. But tell me, Monsieur, what is your name?”

Grateful for the banal pleasantry of introductions in the midst of this chaos, Marius bowed:

“I am called Marius Pontmercy. It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Fauchelevent.”

Only after having spoken did he realize that by these two words, Monsieur Fauchelevent, he had revealed that he knew more than he ought. M. Fauchelevent had introduced himself to no one at the barricades. He anxiously sought for a reaction in the gentleman’s face; he found none.

“Fauchelevent. A most ridiculous name. Why do you choose to hide under the name of that old fool?”

There was an indescribable quality to Javert’s voice that might perhaps be produced by the suppression of great anguish under greater scorn.

“You should go, Javert,” replied M. Fauchelevent with that same imperturbable calm.

Marius felt compelled to interrupt.

“But Monsieur, this man is our prisoner.”

“Yet you followed us for the purpose of saving his life, did you not?”

“Well—yes.”

“An order has been given by your leader for his death. If he stays, he shall die. Does that not contradict your aim?”

Marius knew that Enjolras, once decided, could not be reasoned with. Inspector Javert had rendered him aide, and honour demanded that he return the favour. The only way to spare the inspector’s life was to allow him to leave. By doing so, he would be betraying his friends. To execute or to set free: Both paths were blockaded with his conscience.

“Go,” he whispered.

Javert gazed steadily at M. Fauchelevent for several moments more, then he turned, and in a second he was gone.

Marius was alone in the alley with M. Fauchelevent. He found himself under the penetrating eyes of Cosette’s father. He gulped.

“To save a life is a good thing, my son.”

His heart soared at those words, “my son,” and he almost imagined that he and Cosette were married, and this man was indeed his father. What he would not give to make that a reality!

“I—I thank you, Monsieur,” he stammered.

“And now, Monsieur Pontmercy, you should go also.”

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur?”

M. Fauchelevent smiled with a heartrending melancholy, and said:

“One who loves you awaits you with an eager heart, and would be most concerned should you come to harm.”

“Cosette!” The name burst forth from Marius’ lips like a prayer.

“Cosette.” In M. Fauchelevent’s mouth, the little word sounded like the final plea of a dying man.

In his ecstasy, Marius was oblivious to the other’s pain.

“Then—you know! You approve? Oh Monsieur, you are an angel, you are a saint, you are my saviour!”

M. Fauchelevent contemplated Marius’ beautiful face, glowing and radiant with the inner light of joy; he answered with his eyes closed, as if blinded by this light:

“I know. I…approve. Therefore, go.”

In truth, nothing could have made him happier than to rush immediately into Cosette’s arms with the blessings of her father, yet something halted his steps. While they had been conversing, there was a brief lull in the firing. Now it recommenced, with greater ferocity than before. It was this that stopped Marius. It was the only thing which could have stopped Marius from flying to his love: duty.

“I cannot abandon my friends, not now, not when they need me most.”

The words were not said without some regret, yet whatever regret there was was eclipsed by the strongest conviction. Before he was radiant with joy; now he was radiant with honour.

“Cosette needs you as well.”

“I know, Monsieur. I know. A man has many duties. I must fulfill mine to my country and to my brothers. Then, God willing, I would be returned to Cosette alive. But you, Monsieur, you ought not to stay. If some misfortune should befall me—”

“No. If you stay, I stay. Cosette needs you more than I. For her sake, I will see you leave this place unharmed.”

“Monsieur, that is not true! You are her father—”

“And you are her heart’s love. Do not argue with me on this, Monsieur. Give me the gun.”

Dumbly, Marius handed the pistol to M. Fauchelevent. A shot was fired into the air.

They walked back to the main barricade side by side.

Enjolras turned around at their approach. A frown knitted his marble brow, and he asked:

“Why did you rush into the alley, Marius? and why the long delay?”

“Monsieur Pontmercy thought he recognized the prisoner, and wished to speak with him a final time. Then the prisoner was granted permission to say some last words. Hence the delay.”

Marius’ agreement was enough to appease Enjolras, and they returned to their respective posts.

Before they parted, Marius met M. Fauchelevent’s eyes and read in them a silent promise that they would both escape the impending massacre alive.

For Cosette’s sake.

**Author's Note:**

> Remind me to never do this again.


End file.
